


eye of the storm

by sunshooter



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game), enstars
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Pre-Canon, plot what plot just feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:11:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17704892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshooter/pseuds/sunshooter
Summary: Madara, on running and wandering; coming back and belonging; healing and changing."Will it be fine for you to go to some faraway land without even saying goodbye, without bringing so much with you?” Rei asks.“I’m not in a unit anymore,” Madara cheerily replies, fighting the hitch in his throat. “And besides, it’s easier to travel light!” Easier to pack these feelings away from anyone’s reach.“But sometimes, it’s harder to leave the things important to us.”This is the rule of wandering: carry as little as you can, be it the things you need—or the people in your heart.





	eye of the storm

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i hope you have read most of madara’s stories (esp wisteria, saga part 1 - rainbow, shinsengumi, concerto and sweet halloween) before u read this fic 
> 
> these are songs that accompanied me while writing this fic, i hope u can give it a listen! [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JVytJm8X2g), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlCkafSYNJI), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pbbk0m6aEgU), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mpQVljAWTY) ♡

 

_if i could face them_

_if i could make amends with all my shadows_

_i'd bow my head and welcome them_

_but i feel it burning, like when the winter wind_

_stops my breathing_

 

✧

 

“Catch me if you can,” he yells, voice louder than the shifting-earth.

But no one’s chasing after him.

Even without looking back, he knows people have already given up.

Maybe, he did too. Maybe, _he_ was the first one to give up.

And so, he chooses to keep on running.

 

⚓

 

Madara easily folds his entire life in a suitcase.

It’s fast and sloppy, lacking any sort of order much like himself. To begin with, there’s not much to bring. Clothes, important documents, money, toiletries, just the essentials to get him through weeks or months of staying overseas. He’s not one to bring keepsakes and definitely not someone who needs the comfort of a familiar object to make him feel more secure and less lonely in a place oceans away from where he has always lived.

There is a rapid, rumbling sound when he opens his suitcase, dumps all his things inside and shuts it close. It’s nothing methodical, just instincts and reflexes at work. Once everything has been folded and packed away from anyone’s reach, he takes a step forward—

And never looks back.

He has always been strong and capable like that.

Madara is not a hand others hold but a looming figure that stands in front of them, towering and eclipsing their light, so raw and vicious that it hurts to be anywhere near him.

He’s running ahead, leaving others behind to chase after his dust and shadows. Always, always, _always_.

But packing is only the first step. Traveling is all about the _beyond:_  the wide plain that stretches in front of him, on and on it goes, until it vanishes into a dizzying sight of complete unknowns, of new pages, of new stories. But romanticism and hopeful tenderness have never fit him perfectly. It’s not beginnings Madara want.

Not always.

Not every time.

Second chances aren’t something people like him should have.

So he settles for what he thinks he deserves: the sneering satisfaction of inviting bitterness in; the shivering sense of longing to be somewhere far away from where he once was.

This is the closest he can get to disappearing, to being forgotten.

This is what he does best, after all. He knows it like a vengeful clawing feeling in the hollows of his chest.

Traveling and wandering are all the same, all synonymous to running away.

This is what Madara does best: moving to wherever the waves take him.

 

⚓

 

Madara always arrives with a bang, but leaves as a whisper.

 _Just like the festival’s firework, Mama is heeeere!!!_ , he once joked to Leo when he suddenly barged in the archery grounds to kill some time.

 _Whoa! Who’s there? Mikejimama—?_ Missing the bullseye, Leo’s face fell. He pouted in Madara’s direction, blaming his best friend for the failed shot.

Madara only laughed in response. His voice filled the halls, like the thundering-beat of the taiko drums.

When Keito arrived and found the place trampled by the chaos of one man, he merely sighed. At this point, it was a lost cause. But that didn’t mean he had already given up. _You never listen, Mikejima_ , he had said as he pushed up his glasses with one finger. That was the only warning he gave as he raised his bow, aiming at Madara’s direction.

Madara, once again, only laughed harder. He was so disgustingly good at riling people up, even if it was not always his goal. Just as Keito fired the shot, he scurried away, leaving nothing but his laughter—big and boundless, trailing after his wake.

You see, there’s a good reason why people confuse Madara for a phantom, a ghost, a trick of the eye. He always makes sure he appears and disappears at his own will, never restricted by anything, never held back by anyone.

That’s how he planned to leave this time, _again_.

Or, at least, that’s how he tried.

It’s Rei who sees Madara off at the airport on the night of his departure. Although, _ambush_ is probably a better way to describe it.

“Surprised, aren’t you?” Rei chuckles, surely finding the rare fleeting look of shock on Madara’s face amusing.

“You never run out of tricks, do you Rei-san?”

Madara had always known Rei has his ways. He only needs to tug on a string and favors would come rushing in. It’s not hard to imagine how information can easily be obtained through that, despite Madara’s best effort to keep this as a secret.

Though, it’s not this that unsettles him. He’s not caught surprised by _how_ Rei found him. He is Madara’s predecessor after all. Rather, on _why_ Rei is here.

Madara knows that no one really cares. Isn’t it better if he’s gone? There’s no place for him in anyone’s story, then and now.

“I can hardly call it a trick. At least allow this old man to be concerned until you leave,” Rei says.

Madara clenches his fist and laughs. “There’s nothing to worry about! You’re the one who taught me everything I know, right?” He didn’t think Rei is the type who would bid others farewell like this. Didn’t think they were close enough for a goodbye, despite all the time they’ve spend together as mentor and protégé.

“In the short time you’ve been under my tutelage, I’ve also learned some things about you,” Rei replies, voice soft.

Madara doesn’t want any goodbyes. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s leaving. Or the last time, he thinks wryly. A strange feeling tightens in his chest at the thought.

Prolonged goodbyes and melancholic sentiments just don’t suit him well. Airports, train stations and seaports are all places of arrivals and departures. Places of connections—places where hearts would stumble and let themselves be known.

Madara doesn’t think it applies for him. He can’t wrap his head around the idea of feeling _known_ , can't imagine a world where there are people who would willingly seek him out even if they don't need his help.

“Are you going to be alright?” Rei asks, significantly more awake and perceptive underneath the airport’s washed out lights.

This disarms Madara for a little bit. Rei always has that… peculiar feeling around him, as if his gaze is turning you inside out, trying to see through your soul, making you feel like an answered question. For someone like Madara who is used to analyzing others but himself, it leaves him feeling bare and exposed. He can’t say he likes the way it feels.

“Absooooooluuuutely!” Madara enthuses, ignoring Rei’s knowing gaze. His voice echoes even louder in the emptiness of the airport lobby. “I’ve learned lots of tricks from you, Rei-san! I’ll work reaaaaaally hard and come back in no time!!”

Rei chuckles again. For a moment, Madara can see the war-lines in his shape. Brittle and hollow. As if the mere act of giving a tiny laugh could cause him to collapse any moment. It’s the proof of Rei’s sacrifices for everyone.

In his hands, Madara carries the resolve to make sure none of this would be in vain.

“It pleases me to hear that you are brimming with enthusiasm,” Rei says. “This is, by far, not a painless endeavor. And so, I wanted to delegate the task to someone whom I could trust. If it’s you Mikejima-kun, I know you will be able to do a far more better job than me.”

“Hahaha, thank you Rei-san! I don’t think I can be as good as you, but I’m going to make sure I’m worthy of being your successor!” Madara assures him.

Though at the back of his mind, for the briefest second, Madara wonders if he’s going to come back like this—like a ghost of a dreamer. Someone happy enough to just stand at the shadows and put his dreams on others. Madara is not much for dreaming, but he can’t imagine ever losing the fire in him to change his own fate. Madara made mistakes, but he won’t be like Rei.

“I should be the one thanking you. Though, I don’t mean that.” Rei heaves a contemplative sigh. “I know you faced some… difficulties in your unit.  Will it be fine for you to go to some faraway land without even saying goodbye, without bringing so much with you?”

And there it is again.

The feeling catching in his lungs, in his stomach, in the caverns of his chest. Here, a place he destroyed. This, a dreaming-boy left all alone with the tears he's secretly trying to hide. There, the fractured hearts and fallen figures of his friends persecuted for the sake of a better tomorrow.

What he left: his mistakes, the wreckage of his actions.

What he carried: the guilt, the guilt, the guilt.

His suitcase is too small for all of these.

“I’m not in a unit anymore,” Madara cheerily replies, fighting the hitch in his throat. “And besides, it’s easier to travel light!” Easier to pack these feelings away from anyone’s reach.

“But sometimes, it’s harder to leave the things important to us.” Rei smiles in a way that makes something within Madara crack even more. He knows that shape so well. It’s the same kind of eyes he finds staring right back at him when he looks at a mirror each day.

“I have to get going now!” Madara nods towards the boarding gates. “Fareweeeeeell, Rei-san!” He laughs and, again, like one of the things he’s always known for, Madara walks away, leaving nothing but his laughter, big and boundless, trailing after his wake.

This is the rule of wandering: carry as little as you can, be it the things you need—or the people in your heart.

 

⚓

 

So, he keeps on running and running and running...

But what if the thing he wants to run away from so achingly bad is himself?

 

⚓

 

After traveling through two countries, Madara realizes that there’s not much need to unpack. It’s easier to just fish out whatever he needs from his suitcase, throw it back inside, shut it close afterwards, and move to a new place without looking back. Repeat this cycle until it fades. It’s an easy, systematic way. There’s no danger of forgetting or losing anything.

But sometimes, Madara feels no traces of him in anywhere he goes. Nothing memorable to prove that he had been once in this place. That he lived, even for a short time, _here_.

He’s always elsewhere, rooted nowhere.

 _Who would remember him, then?_ He would wonder.

 _Will there be any place for him somewhere?_ He shakes these thoughts away.

 

⚓

 

“Don’t you miss it?” An elderly woman asks him, somewhere in France.

“Hm?” Madara gives her a puzzled look.

She smiles sweetly at him. “Your home.”

 _Ah!_ What else was he supposed to miss, of course!

Home is not a foreign concept for Madara. But it’s also not something he holds close to his heart. What’s a need for a home when there are oceans to cross, mountains to fly over, and festivals all around the world waiting for him?

It’s not the question that bothers him, but how he couldn’t answer back immediately. The word _no_ leaves a tangy aftertaste in his mouth, and so he just puts on the mask of a festival man and laughs. “Hahaha! I miss my homeland Japan, but there is so much to see out there!”

He’s not lying. The world is too big, too wide. It’d be a shame for people to just stay in one place for a long, long time. But…

Madara looks down at the crepe in his hands and automatically wishes he were eating takoyaki.

Maybe he really misses Japan more than he cares to admit. He misses his country, the smell of saltwater in their little town. The sparkle of life during matsuri, their language, their food, their culture, maybe even the school!

Most of all, when he thinks of something he could really painfully miss—when he thinks of the closest thing he has to a _home_ —what comes into his mind are the soft, quiet moments: afternoons of playing house with a childhood friend whose voice sounds like a sea lullaby, and matsuri nights with a starry-eyed companion who dreams of heroes and happiness.

But these are things of the past. There are no more places waiting for him. Nowhere to root himself, no one left to take his hands.

But it’s not a sad story, he tells himself. After all—

What’s a need for a home when there are oceans to cross, mountains to fly over, and festivals all around the world waiting for him? What’s a need for belonging when he has so many people calling for his help?

 

⚓

 

Madara’s parents often tell him the importance of connections—building bridges between others for the sake of mutual benefits. _You don’t make friends; you make allies._ But Madara would rather spend his afternoons playing house with Kanata, than learn how deep a family’s power can run.

“Why?” Kanata asks, breaking Madara’s thought. His voice is so soft and mellow. Like the coming of summer rain, it’s untraceable and easy to miss.

 _Almost_ , at least. But not for Madara.

Being with Kanata makes him feel an odd sensation. Something quiet. _Peaceful_. Like he found someone like him. Like he can _belong_ , too. Is this what it feels like? Madara isn’t sure what peaceful and belonging are even supposed to mean.

Sometimes he finds himself closing his eyes, just listening to Kanata speak. The way his words rise and fall ever so slowly. Not that Kanata speaks a lot, to Madara’s dismay. But maybe, that’s what pushes him to listen more.

After some time, it made him more daring, made him want to coax more out of Kanata—a smile, a chuckle, a laugh. Sometimes, something even bigger than that. Even if Kanata only scowls and frowns at him.

“Because we are playing house!” Madara answers back, as he pretends that the stones he has picked up moments ago are dirty pile of dishes that need washing. A good mama should be good at washing dishes! He does a circular motion with his right hand, while he whistles a tune he had overheard from his father’s car radio on their way to Kanata’s place—to the Shinkai household.

“That’s not what a Mama and Papa do,” Kanata mouths. A pout is already beginning to form on his face.

“How would you know what a Mama and Papa—” Madara tries to catch the words and take it back, but it’s already too late. He has never been fast when it comes to things that matter.

The bottom of Kanata’s lip trembles, though he’s not crying. Madara has never seen Kanata cry, but he's familiar with how defiance and pain looks like in Kanata's face.

It is an awful thing to say to someone who rarely sees their own parents, or even know what a family is supposed to be like. But Madara has never been good at being tact or delicate, even at such a young age. “I’m sorry, okay? As an apology, I’ll bring you to my favorite place!”

“I don’t want to come with you.”

“I promise you’ll have fun there!” Madara’s standing up now, stretching his arms wide like a bird ready to soar. “It’s a place where you can feel closer to others!”

“Closer?”

“Yes!”

“They won’t let me come...” Kanata’s face falls.  He sits in an uncomfortable seiza position, as if restricted by the invisible threads dangling all over the place. The rules that tell him: _a living god cannot do this_ ; _a living god cannot be like this_.

Madara still doesn't know what a living god is supposed to be, but he knows he hates what it does to Kanata. How it makes him feel lonely and isolated. “Don’t worry! I’m Mama, remember? I’ve got a plan!”

And so that night, Madara sneaks in Kanata out of their household to see a festival for the first time.

There will be a rise of panic once people realize Kanata is missing. Madara knows he’ll be scolded by everyone, deemed a bad influence, unworthy of being Kanata’s friend.

But Madara thinks, as he watches Kanata beside him, eyes lighting up to reflect the kaleidoscope of colors in the sky: stealing a god and being hated by the world for it is something he wouldn't mind doing every day.

Happiness is hard to come by for people like them. But maybe this is the closest they can get to living it.

 

⚓

 

Tonight, there is a matsuri. The evening is marked by the scent of woodsmoke, the rose-gleam of lantern lights and the joyful fire all around that almost gives Madara a certain kind of drunken pleasure.

Rolling his shoulders, he unknots the stress built up in his muscles from carrying the mikoshi all over town this afternoon. There’s a radiant-bliss in the way he walks, in the way he smiles. Nothing makes him happier than helping during festivals.

“Yoooo Chiaki-san! Mama is baaaaack!! Did you miss me? Don’t worry! Mama will never leave you alone anymore!!” Madara greets as the takoyaki stall came into view. He sees Chiaki whose attention is all focused in one place—the grilling pan.

“You’re back. Great job out there! As expected from someone like you, Mikejima-san!” Chiaki looks up, sweating. “And it’s okay. I can do this much. See?” He gestures to the grilling takoyaki and gives Madara the smallest smile, a touch shy and bashful, as if caught doing something he’s never used to.

It’s Chiaki’s fifth festival with Madara, but he still acts cautiously and carefully, afraid that he might do something wrong and tarnish Madara’s reputation among the festival organizers. He should stop worrying so much, Madara thinks. After all, he likes enlisting Chiaki’s help during festivals _because_ he likes his company, not his skills at tending stalls.

“That’s great! How’s our business going? Flourishing?” Madara asks as he tightens the sash of the happi across his waist. “Oooooh, you’re getting the knack for cooking takoyaki. What do you think about quitting the idol industry so we can start our own takoyaki joint venture, hm? No need to think about the capital, just sign some papers and Mama will take care of the rest!! I promise it’s nothing shady~!”

“Don’t joke like that.” Chiaki frowns. “We’ll be having a live soon, you know. You should—” He pauses, opens his mouth and closes it. “You should come to practice sometimes. Our senpai’s lack motivation when you’re not there.”

As he got older, Madara comes to festival more often than he goes to school. No one has problems with this, anyway. Except for Chiaki.

Chiaki is an interesting person. He’s not extremely special or skilled in any way. He walks with his shoulder hunched, like he’s always afraid of something. But he gets this spark in his eyes every time he talks about heroes or justice. He dreams bigger than any person Madara has ever met in his life.

“Besides, I still want to—” Chiaki swallows his words again. When he continues, his voice is whisper-soft. If it weren’t for Madara’s superhuman hearing, he would’ve missed Chiaki saying, “I still want to learn lots of things from you.”

Then he adds in a louder voice, “Because you’re really cool and strong, Mikejima-san! You’re like a hero! A true ally of justice!”

This afternoon, there was a bunch of people obstructing the mikoshi’s path, creating a mess for everyone even before the festival starts. Madara had no choice but to leave them with their bones broken and their bodies bruised at a random back alley.

Madara would serve justice in any way necessary, even if it means using power and violence. He doesn't think there's anything wrong with this way of living. But sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if he could close his eyes and let himself be touched by Chiaki’s hidden light. How would it feel like if he were really the kind of hero Chiaki sees in him?

Madara gazes at Chiaki, letting his stare linger. The lights paint Chiaki in a way that seems as if he’s illuminated from within by a thousand fireflies. It’s not a brilliant radiance, but it’s warm and delicate. It’s the kind of light that makes people want to hold their palms open. Chiaki burns in a small but hopeful way.

Chiaki catches his eyes and stares back. This chokes Madara up, like he's the one whose light is being eclipsed. Like Chiaki is undoing something within Madara. He looks at Madara like he's made up of everything that glows in the dark, and not some fucked up kid whose hands have long been washed by blood.

“Hahaha! Then I’ll teach you my ultimate takoyaki flipping technique,” Madara says, turning the conversation into another direction. “Look, the trick here relies on flicking your wrist like this when it’s time to flip it over. Okay, do it like _this_! Try it with me!~”

They continue cooking and selling, until the batter runs out and their quota is reached. When the night dances to the tune's climax, a burst of fireworks came, one after another, fire-spheres humming upwards and washing the night sky with its many colors. Both of them gape at the sight.

“I think you’ll like my friend,” Madara says, leaning in closer to Chiaki.

Chiaki suddenly jumps back and covers his ears, but not fast enough for Madara to see the tips of his ears growing redder by the minute. “W-what?”

“Ohhhhh.” Madara grins. “Are you ticklish there?”

“I—I’m not!! You just surprised me,” Chiaki reasons and accuses. “You started whispering in my ears, Mikejima-san. You _never_ whisper!”

“Well, I actually didn’t whisper. It just seemed like I did because it's too loud in here. This is one of the great things about festivals! I can be just like everyone else!!” _Ordinary and_   _able to fit in,_ Madara doesn’t say. _"_ Hahaha! You’ll really like my friend, Chiaki-san! He said the same thing to me when we went to a festival once!”

“Your friend…??” Chiaki can’t conceal his excitement. “If he’s your friend, he must be someone amazing too!”

This time, Madara’s reply is tinged with something uncharacteristically solemn and heartfelt. “Yeah.” He closes his eyes and smiles. “Yeah, he is…”

Almost like a tape being rewinded, he muses about the stories he was once part of, memories of festivals he had seen with his childhood friend. Completely alive, still within reach. “I’ll introduce him to you! I hope we can all go to a festival together someday!”

 

⚓

 

Madara’s standing right there in the middle of a huge crowd. Hundreds and thousands of people are swirling past him, moving along to some music—a beat, a clap, they twirl around with their arms linked together. The choreography of other people’s lives is so merry and electric, so different yet so similar from all the festivals he has always known.

He takes a deep breath.

Glances are a betrayal, the tiniest kind of hope.

But this is a festival and there are thousands of people around him. No one would notice anything. No one would know.

Allowing this kind of treachery against himself, he glances—the tiniest, fraction of a head tilt—at both of his sides.

Hah... Of course. What did he ever expect? That suddenly the past could change? That suddenly he’s not—alone? That he… Shaking his head, he takes another breath.

 _I hope we can all go to a festival together someday!_ The tail-ends of a conversation edges into his mind. He wants to laugh at himself for thinking he could have a future like that. There’s no way it can happen, no way someone like him deserves a life as happy as that tiny miraculous dream, after he had failed to protect everyone he loves.

It’s like a spell, one that Madara has always been grateful for. Festivals can bridge connections without the promises of a commitment. It can make you laugh along with others, people you’d normally be wary of. It can make you feel like you’re closer to them, part of the same world, living in the same story. But festivals are just that: a trick. A piece of a pipe dream he desperately yearns for. Thousands of people in the crowd but no one can see through the illusion.

Humans break so easily in such a quiet way. Madara vividly remembers Leo and the music he stopped hearing.

He wants to scream in agony and fury, wants to tear apart the world that treats them unkindly, wants to make everyone who has ever wronged the people he love pay for it.

 _Himself_ , included.

Both of his sides are now empty. His hands weren’t able to hold on to anyone.

He clenches his fist so tightly, until his palms bleed from the cut his fingernails make.

In the middle of a festival with thousands of people, all he can hear is silence.

Madara hates it.

 

⚓

 

Madara rarely looks up, a force of habit that comes from being bigger than most people.

Afraid that he would accidentally bump into someone small and squash their bones, he would always look down and be on his toes. And so, even though he has gotten this old and prevented numerous unwanted murders via bodily injuries, there are a lot of things that he has easily missed, until he’s faced with it.

Like the winter-sky, the billowing clouds, or the stars that, suddenly, seems almost near enough to be touched outside the airplane window.

The stars tonight are strangely different, strikingly kinder. Twinkling as if they know how to listen, as if they’re nodding to Madara’s beckoning. This must be what  _Ryuseitai's_ songs mean when they talk about how the stars can bring happiness to people.

Suddenly, he sees it: something bright and fast, curving against the sky.

Madara doesn’t believe in gods, an all-knowing entity responsible for our lives, or bottling hopes in the shape of a wish. Dreams and ideals are an abstract, faraway concept for someone like him who has lost everything, someone like him who measures accomplishments through victories and losses, hand-in-hand with his own justice-system. Slowly, dreams have become just fancy words to his ears.

But running is tiring, even for him.

He wants to cling on to something, no matter how unreal and intangible it is; wants to pretend that when he turns around, he’ll be able to see them chasing after him, waiting to pull him in at the end of their outstretched hands.

Before he knows it, he’s closing his eyes.

 _Make a wish,_ he hears a familiar voice.

A shooting star passes.

 

⚓

 

Madara returns on a spring day.

It’s an unannounced arrival, but he makes his presence known shortly.

He introduces himself to everyone, insisting they call him ‘Mama’. But he knows for a fact that this gesture is more for his own comfort, than for others. Names are precious. No matter how suspicious a person is, their vague and scary impression disappears the moment you know what to call them.

And nothing can ever measure up to the warmth someone feels when they’re reminded of the one person who will always unconditionally love and protect them—a mother.

It doesn’t stop there.

Because Madara tells the whole world of his goal to become a _mama_. It’s a hilarious and outrageous dream for someone like him whose life is known to be full of victories, marked by an endless stream of success. But it would hurt less, he doesn't voice out, to aim for something he already knows is impossible. Even if he fails to become this goal, he is, in no way, setting himself up for failure.

Madara is a paradox in so many ways, including this. He goddamn hates himself for it.

 

⚓

 

A petal catches on his eyelashes and he blinks, letting it fall on his palms. He looks up and sees the sakura branches in full blossom. It’s no different from the one in his memories and yet—something in the air has changed.

Yumenosaki suddenly feels like a stranger, an unknown land. He wonders fleetingly: was he the one who left or was he the one left behind?

He doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

Madara goes around the school, challenging everyone to a match. It’s to help them grow, he claims. Which is the truth. He cares in his own twisted way, at the end of the day. But he’s also looking for something else, a certain pattern he’s familiar with. Contempt. Hunger. Viciousness. Battlefields. More revolutions. A continuation of the story where, this time, the heroes would finally punish the villains who took away his happiness.

But none of those is here.

Instead, he finds a field of blooming flowers.

Instead people are happy, singing hand in hand with one another.

The days go by in a hazy space. Madara settles himself into the self-hatred, loss and penance boiling in his veins. He feels these things all at once, a kind of heaviness so pronounced and tight, as if he’s putting stones in his pocket to sink himself further into the depths of the sea until it burns to breathe.

The changes he had felt when he arrived slowly start to show itself to him.

Chiaki’s the first one to greet him. His glasses are gone and he looks younger. Lighter. He burns like the morning sun and Madara can’t help but look away.

He asks Madara to come back, to show up in class sometimes, to help guide the new members of _Ryuseitai_. Madara’s heart clenches for a bit upon hearing his former unit’s name. He instinctively searches for any sign of blame in Chiaki’s face. Anything that could forever crucifix him into the cross he’s determined to carry. But there’s only the map of the sun in Chiaki’s face, and the stars that had never left his eyes.

Madara tells Chiaki that he doesn’t have the right to love. But Chiaki only tells him that none of it was his fault—Kanata doesn’t blame him. It’s alright, Madara thinks, if Chiaki doesn’t understand why he’s doing this. He should remain in the light, along with his new comrades.

Mitsuru, an energetic first year from the track club starts calling Madara 'Mike-chan-senpai' fondly, instead of Mama. He clings to him excitedly, while also calling Madara annoying. He gets sad each time Madara leaves for a long period of time, but he also claims that they're not close. He challenges Madara to different matches, from running to long jumping, again and again, even when he has no chance of winning.

Each time Madara lets him win, Mitsuru would only kick up a fuss, sulk, pout and get upset in a way that Madara feels like he can never understand how to make other people happy.

“You don’t have to hold yourself back for me!” Mitsuru would say. “I’ll catch up to you one day.”

Madara laughs, but he doesn’t count on it. No one has ever caught up to him, after all.

Later on, he is dragged into one of Kunugi-sensei’s schemes: a messy affair involving temporary units for a big project made to revive retired idols.

Madara likes taking care of other people, without a doubt, but he hates units and the bloody history behind it. The people he treasured were once mercilessly crushed and destroyed by this system, as if they were villains who deserved to be punished.

Units are just a shackle to hold others down. People can’t help but compare themselves to others, until cracks begin to form and these differences drive a wedge among them.

In the end, units are just a cruel way of isolating someone even more.

Madara would rather be alone.

Sora, a sprightly first year who refuses to call him Mama tells him one day, “Mr. Giant, you’re a mixture of lots of color Sora is not familiar with. There’s blue, green, and hmm, maybe little bit of red. It’s murky and dark, like a stormy sea. Are you upset about something?”

And he is, he is for a lot of reasons.

He sees Eichi smiling, shoulders shaking from the laughter that waggles his paper-thin body. He sees him affectionately ruffling the hair of a small first year who leans in against his touch and looks at Eichi as if he’s pure, angelic, someone who had hung up all the stars in the sky and had never hurt anyone in this life.

He sees Keito with his sleepless, bloodshot eyes and permanent nagging scowl, but he walks down the halls and people follow his figure with adoration and respect. He watches Keito lecturing a long-haired second year about noble values, about kindness, about how you shouldn't carelessly carry something as sharp as a sword because you might accidentally hurt someone.

Madara sees all this and feels a rage so hot it turns his face into something expressionless, his knuckles itching.

It’s so hard to fight the anger and jealousy that rises in him. It sits heavy within his core and breaks him away further and further away from his own self and everyone around him. He thinks: it’s time to run again. To destroy everything across his path.

Madara can’t imagine how it feels like to not let anger and violence define him. To not let the guilt and blame and self-loathing scrape against each other, leaving him more miserable than before.

It’s so much easier to give himself up into these feelings, to invite it in and let it stay.

Madara comes back to a world so bright and blinding and _unfair_. Why should those people be happy when he’s still suffering?

 

⚓

 

And so, he keeps on running because it’s all he knows to do.

Because it's the only way he knows how to survive.

 

⚓

 

But no one can keep on running forever.

And when he finally slows down, he realizes that—

 

⚓

 

The sun slowly dips against the horizon. Madara can’t help but notice the way Kuro’s hair catches the last remnants of sunlight. It glistens like wildfire.

Everything about Kuro is sharp and blazing and dangerous, but he lets other people inside his heart and invites them to stay. Kuro is the softness of dusk, the half-light caught between day and night.

Madara doesn’t know if that’s stupidity or bravery. He’s afraid—afraid that he’s slowly beginning to understand what it is that makes people want to stay in just one place for good, even when the world is too big and too wide.

“C’mon, stop dawdling. Put your hands together. You’re in front of the dead,” Kuro instructs him roughly, looking as if he’s ready to tear Madara’s head off if he causes even the slightest bit of trouble.

“Is this your…?” Madara asks, hesitantly, like he can’t follow along where this is going. Which is an odd concept, really. Because everything so far had been going perfectly according to Madara’s plans.

“Yep, my family’s ancestral tomb. Ma’s also in there... I think,” Kuro replies, squatting down and folding his hands together. “Hasumi explained it to me many times, but I can’t entirely wrap my head around it. I only understand bits and pieces.”

Madara easily notes the way Kuro’s forehead wrinkles and his eyebrows scrunches, deep in thought. _Pained_.

“Here’s a rosary. And this is the incense. If you’re done lighting that up, pray,” Kuro adds.

“I know what to do,” Madara informs him.

He knows what to do, but he doesn't know what to say. It’s the very first time someone has ever introduced Madara to their parent.

Silence stretches between them, sticking out in odd angles. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Kuro watching him intently.

He’s heard some things about Kuro’s family, while he was devising a plan to put _Akatsuki_ and _fine_ down. There’s guilt etched deeply somewhere in there, and it puts a strange knot in Madara’s heart. Despite how much he plays the role of a vigilante, embracing violence like a second skin, he had never really come face to face with the permanence of death.

Maybe Kuro’s sorrow extends past the four walls and burned history of Yumenosaki; maybe it’s the kind of regret no one can ever fully know, not even someone like Madara.

And the thought that Kuro trusts Madara to witness these parts of him, to hear all the unspoken words for why he has brought him here…

There’s a lump in Madara’s throat. He gulps.

He thinks about what he wants. Why should the people who have caused so much suffering to others be happy when he’s holding himself back—when he had lost so much? He’s not aiming for happiness. He doesn’t want to live happily. He doesn’t want forgiveness. He doesn’t want to forgive.

He wants the unfairness of this world to stop. He wants the hammer of justice to punish these people who have hurt others. He wants revenge: for the few people who could walk beside him and love someone as crooked as he is.

Above all, Madara’s fury is a beam of fire directed at his own self. He’s wretched and ugly and dirty, inside out. He’s savage and terrifying and furious. He is a monster, a monster who is incapable of gentleness and hope. A monster who couldn’t protect anyone. A monster who only knows how to hurt others. He is the ocean burning. He is a natural disaster. He is the stormy seas.

But—

The eye of the storm has always been empty and quiet within, exactly the way his heart feels like.

And—

Madara has always been lost in that silence.

He can pretend all he wants to be a storm that wrecks everything on its path, uprooting trees and destroying fields of flowers left and right. But the truth is: within the storm, underneath layers upon layers of anger, is a silent grief. It was grief for what he couldn’t be and what he couldn’t do. It was grief for all his failures and faults.

He’s raising his voice so others can hear him better, but perhaps, all this time, he’s the one who can’t hear himself.

But—

Kuro is looking and listening and Madara feels seen, found, _known_.

He’s so, so near and Madara wants to punch Kuro, just to check if everything is not an illusion. Although he knows that Kuro would easily block him. Madara silently laughs at this thought.

Kuro has always been like that—an equal. Catching and blocking Madara’s punches. Matching up with his pace at a scary degree. Kuro who is beside him right at this moment. Kuro who is not looking away. Kuro who takes in Madara’s silent fury and tells him that he’s ready to face him anytime. Kuro who normalizes his anger, accepts it, and promises that these are all parts of being human.

And Madara finds that—he wants to _believe_. That maybe, he’s no different from everyone all along.

Maybe forgiveness doesn’t happen overnight. Sometimes you build it from the dust where your heart has crumbled. Sometimes you learn it, one day at a time. And you put it into practice, until it’s something that easily comes to you. Like coming into surface after being submerged for a very long time. Like finally learning how to breathe again.

Anger, resentment and jealousy can't change other people’s hearts, only his own.

 _Your son is a good person_ , Madara greets Kuro’s mother. _You must've had a reaaaally big heart, that's why Kuro-san was able to accept even someone like me. Thank you..._ And there’s a mountain of emotions encapsulated in those two words.

 _Oh,_ _by the way Kuro-Mama, we have a similar name! I’m also a Mama! My name is Mikejima Ma–_

“Alright. With that done, let’s regroup with the other guys.” Kuro is standing up, stretching his legs and arms.

“That was faast. I wasn’t even done giving my name to your mama, Kuro-san,” Madara complains.

An easy banter follows them after. Madara feels strangely light.

“I hope you’ll lend me an ear every once in a while,” Madara says. He feels the cold air of summer-night against his skin. “Well, I’m probably boring you, though.” The smile he makes cuts his face.

But Kuro is grinning back as if he’s seeing Madara for the first time, with his heart laid bare, finally outside the eye of the storm. “Nah. I think I finally got to know you a bit.”

Madara feels something warm breathing into his heart.

Because Kuro is not an ant and Madara doesn’t need to be afraid anymore, he looks up at the stars this time. It shines like a daydream.

 

⚓

 

He realizes that there is no place for all his anger in this changed world.

Instead, he is welcomed with kindness. Instead, they promised him acceptance.

Finally, he dares to ask himself: _Can I change for the better too, at this place the waves have taken me?_

He chooses to stop running.

 

⚓

 

Things don’t change easily. Madara is still in a solo unit. Madara still causes chaos wherever he goes. Madara still can’t fully embrace the idea of being with others.

Springs tips into summer and he holds a concert performance with Leo at a neighboring town, in an effort to help his friend get back on his feet.

“In the end, I tend to always monopolize everything, but,” Madara pauses, trying to string the words together. “I really, truly love sharing with someone else far more.”

These were the things taken away from him. These were the things he destroyed himself.

But Leo lets himself be pushed forward by Madara towards the stage. Leo smiles brightly across from him, meeting the crowd’s gaze and getting lost in the music—or, perhaps, being _found_.

He watches Leo rising up from his ashes. Dying and resurrecting, bathed in the glow of the stage, awakened by the claps of the audience. Wearing his scars and broken parts as if these are newfound parts of him, something that draws themselves together into a shape that he will slowly grow into.

The war can take away everything, but they can’t take away Leo’s heart where his music comes from. No one could ever take it away from him. Leo had always been such a strong boy, amidst the broken bits. Stronger than Madara in all the ways that matter.

It feels a little bit like a fever-dream to see people grow stronger, to share a space, a moment, a place of belonging with someone without fearing that he might break them. Madara bangs his fingers against the piano-keys with a ruthless delight.

 

⚓

 

Today, after Ba-barrier's performance, Sora tugs his sleeves and tells him with a big smile, “Mr. Giant, today your color is a bright sparkling blue. Something richer but more transparent. It’s like the blue of the sea when the waves are calm! Sora thinks it suits you the best!”

 

⚓

 

The very moment they finish running a lap, Mitsuru dashes to Madara, tugging his shirt eagerly. “Mike-chan-senpai~"

It’s so sudden that Madara almost chokes on the water he’s drinking. He yelps back and wipes the water trailing down his chin. “Ack. What is it, Mitsuru-san? Want Mama to upsy-daisy you?”

“Nooo,” Mitsuru says with a pout in his lips. “I’m not _that_ much of a kid. I came to ask you for something else.”

“Okay, okay, tell me what it is and Mama will do it for you!”

“Bring me to a festival!” Mitsuru bursts, hands curled around Madara’s shirt, as if he’s not letting him run away. “Arashi-chan-senpai told me how you’re always helping out during a festival.”

 _That’s_ , Madara begins to stay, but Mitsuru’s excited chatter easily drowns his reply.

“Let me help you too!! Then we can compete in the festival games after we finished our job! Please, I promise I’ll be a good boy! Nii-chan even praised me the other day for helping him carry a huuuge box of costumes to our practice room. Maybe I can also help you carry those… those moving house thing that you like carrying!!”

“Ara!” Arashi moves closer to them and gasps. “Are _we_ going to a festival? Mama, you should’ve told me sooner!”

 _No there’s no ‘we’, there’s no plan,_ Madara tries to get the words out but Arashi is still busy talking.

“A maiden must always prepare for these kinds of things, you know? Ahhh, I should look for my yukata~ I wonder where I last put it.”

“Festivals embody the spirit of Japan,” Adonis quips, nodding his head. “Kanzaki taught me a lot of things about it, but I have yet to visit one that’s not held inside the school.”

“Come with us, Ado-chan-senpai!! There are so many games we can play together, like goldfish-scooping or shooting games,” Mitsuru voices out, raising one finger at a time for every game he could think of.

“I see. If I want to learn more about a country's culture, I should also try out those games,” Adonis replies, earnestly. “Then if you'll allow me to come with you.”

“Adonis-chan, of course you may! The more, the merrier~” Arashi is the one who replies. “It’s a track club family outing, okay? Let's decide where we should all meet~”

Their conversation sounds like a whole world so far away from where Madara is. He feels the itch to back away, to run somewhere else until he's gone, forgotten.

“C’mon, c’mon!! We’re going right?” Mitsuru is still looking up at him expectantly, hands still curled around Madara’s shirt. “Promise?”

He swallows and his heart falters. It’s easy to be loud, to force his way into conversations with brute force. But being invited to come inside without needing to tear down any walls is an unfamiliar territory. When he finds his voice again, it sounds different, surprisingly more whole, but softer than he had ever intended: “I promise.”

“Yay!!” Mitsuru cheers, finally letting go of Madara’s shirt to raise his hands in joy.

In a heartbeat, Madara easily remembers all the festivals he had spent with Chiaki and Kanata, until the memories start to blur, replaced with the shadowy hues of all the festivals where they’re no longer there.

Madara has always cursed his memories, his ability to remember everything precisely down to the very minutest details. It’s not the gruesome flashbacks that leave an open wound each time, but the happy ones. It always haunts him, leaving a permanent mark for all the things he had lost.

Madara watches the rest of his club members carry on talking, walking forward.

But perhaps memories don’t always rot and crumble as time passes. Sometimes, it's here to remind him of gentleness, just in a different form, a different smile, a different laughter.

Now, Chiaki performs in hero shows with his unit. His light is not hidden anymore and he’s shining in all the ways he was supposed to shine. Like a true hero, he saves everyone with his warmth and kindness. Kanata is right beside him, looking towards the horizon, swaying like a music note to a song he can now sing with everyone else. They’re not alone anymore. They're both happy like this.

And Madara is also—

“Mike-chan-senpai, hurry up or we’ll leave you behind!” Mitsuru calls for him, lightly jumping from his spot to catch Madara’s attention. The rest of the track club members are all looking back, waiting for him.

 _Family,_ Arashi had said.

—content like this.

Madara smiles thinly, lets out a quiet little laugh and walks in step with them.

 

⚓

 

Summer melts into autumn and Halloween comes in the form of monsters Madara isn’t used to: being with others in this certain kind of way.

Madara can’t remember the last time he’d been alone since they started preparing for the Halloween Party. There’s always someone with him: helping him put up decorations in the school hallways or baking sweets that are going to be given to the guests. Even when he tells them that he can easily do all these things alone, they would only give him a look and shake their heads.

It’s a strange feeling to be part of something.

To be with other people each night, watching a series of horror movies so full of fake gore and blood splatters, as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to do for someone like him who knows all too well that the red of real blood is a shade darker.

To find a spot allotted just for him in this room that doesn’t need his presence, in this place so full of people who are so complete and whole when they’re together.

He hears Chiaki scream once again, fumbling with the bed sheets he's discreetly trying to use as a shield, and Madara can’t fight the tiny endearing smile that comes on his face. _I’ll always be your ally, Chiaki-san. But I don’t think I can help you this time._

It’s a strange feeling to watch an ensemble of people all so different from one another—monsters and humans, young and old, adults and children, misters and misses—interact so freely and happily, much like they are in a festival. But this time, Madara doesn’t feel like he needs to wear a mask in order to belong.

It’s a strange feeling to watch other people’s lives this close, when he has always put distance between him and others, afraid that he might break something once again.

And it’s an even stranger feeling to hear Chiaki’s voice on the other end of the phone call, so sure and strong-willed, while Madara’s voice hovers between hesitant and afraid. When all this time, it has always been Chiaki who is listening, while Madara talks.

“There are still some decorations that need some fixing,” Madara tells Chiaki, as he straightens out the balloons in the entryway. “But don’t worry Chiaki-san!! I can handle this on my own. You should start without m—”

“No,” Chiaki cuts him off firmly. It’s the first time, since Halloween preparation started, that Chiaki sounded this strong and confident.

Madara doesn’t stop working with his hands, even when he feels the cloud of doubt drifting above him and he hears his heart ringing in his ears. Laughter, his default response to everything, almost comes out to soften their exchange. Until Chiaki starts speaking again.

“You’re the one who said that I should lead this event. I’m telling you Mikejima-san, we can’t start without you,” Chiaki proclaims, like a natural born leader. Chiaki had always been more fit to lead others compared to him. Madara feels a small surge of pride from it.

“I know you can do it alone,” Chiaki continues and Madara wonders if they're still talking about the decorations. “People have always said you’re already complete on your own, even without the added strength of a unit. I don’t—I don’t doubt that because you’re amazing, Mikejima-san! You really are! But—” Chiaki pauses, as if struggling to get the words out from where he had always kept it.

At last, Chiaki breathes out, “I don’t think that’s the only purpose of having other people in our life.”

Madara remembers his conversation with Kanata, how he’s the one keeping distance from everyone, unreachable through the other side of the water tank.

Only reachable through phone calls, where he doesn’t need to be near anyone, where he's far enough that he can't see the way they look at him.

It’s a strange feeling, to be seen through like this. His hands keep on working and his feet keep on moving, but his mouth remains shut tight. There's an ache in the quiet place of his chest. He’s listening to Chiaki’s words.

“It’s not other people—our unit members, friends, classmates or the audience—that complete us because everyone is already a whole person on our own, no matter how we’re all different from each other. I think— no, I _know_ that it’s another thing. These people don’t complete us, they complete our _lives_ . They make each day more bearable, brighter. They gave our existence more meaning. Having these people in our lives make everything… _more_ ,” Chiaki finishes, his voice all breathless, cracking up not with sadness, but with the weight of what he means.

It’s a strange feeling.

It’s a—

It’s a feeling Madara has always been running away from.

Even if Eichi and the others failed to bring him down during the war, they unknowingly carved his heart out and tore it into tiny, minuscule pieces. He was left untouched, but the very people who gave his existence meaning and purpose were all gone.

Instead of dreaming again and learning how to heal, he chose to live with that hollowness, chose to live with his own self-imposed suffering brought by this guilt and hatred.

Madara run and run and folded and packed away from everyone’s reach his own self, his own life, his own heart and isolated himself in the process.

Madara is all the words he couldn’t say because he’s too afraid to accept himself, too afraid to face the hemmed and halved and hollowed parts of him that he hates. Even more afraid to show it to others in fear that they might find all the ugly, dark and broken pieces living in his chest. Madara thinks about how he’ll never be able to express all the things he’s feeling, no matter how many languages he knows how to speak.

Are there spaces big enough to fit him?

Are there places out there, even for someone like him?

There's a long moment of quiet that settles between them, punctuated with the sound of rustling movements from both lines—the only sign that the call is still connected.

Until finally, at last, Madara breathes out, “Chiaki-san, I’m dashing over!!”

“We’re waiting!” Madara can hear the smile on Chiaki’s voice, even without seeing his face.

This time, he runs forward.

Often, Madara still thinks it’s time to run away. It’s so much easier to be heartless and rooted nowhere else, unattached to anybody. It’s so much easier to destroy the things blocking his way and distance himself from everyone so that no one could ever come close. But.

Madara wants to change.

He wants to be the kind of person Chiaki sees in him—maybe not a hero, but someone brave enough.

He wants to be the kind of friend Kanata needed—someone near enough to be touched.

He wants to do a brave thing. He wants to move close, closer. All he wants to do is to _love_.

Because he loves a lot, he loves too much. Because Madara doesn’t know how _not_ to do anything without giving up all of himself to it. Everything he does had always consume him—be it hating or loving.

The thought that he doesn't have the right to love others wasn’t repentance; it’s just another form of him running away again. Because loving comes with the terrifying risk of breaking and leaving and hurting, and yet feeling okay despite all this. At the end of it all, it’s about trusting others and their love for him, in any capacity, in any form. Madara had always find it hard to trust that he’s someone worthy of being wanted, someone deserving of that love.

Madara loves and wants and dreams. He always did, but he forced himself to close his eyes to these parts of himself because it’s harder to deal with the aftermath of trying and failing.

He thinks of Chiaki and Kanata who found each other and learned how to build things from the dust, and dream together. He thinks of Leo who came back and learned how to make music to the new tune inside him, even if he’s not whole and unbreakable anymore. He thinks of Eichi, Keito and all the other people he had come to hate, who are all just learning how to face the consequences of their choices, as they try to build a future where everyone can grow and pursue their dreams.

He thinks of Yumenosaki, so full of broken people who are only trying their best, finding wholeness again in the way they let others occupy spaces inside their lives.

Maybe he isn't so different from these broken people all along. Madara is not as strong as he thinks he is. Not invincible and indestructible. He’s easily scared, just like everybody else, afraid to try once again after he was once hurt.

His anger is still an ever-present feeling, pooling at the pits of his stomach. He doesn’t think it’s something he can ever get rid of. It takes great amount of courage to accept his rage.

But if there’s something Madara’s learning: it’s how to listen to himself, to all the sounds within him. That silence isn’t really empty and anger isn’t simply _just_ anger. Because Kuro was right all along! Anger is part of being a human. Sometimes it’s just a manifestation of what he needs, that maybe there is something wrong within. And these wrong things are not something unfixable.

Humans are so much stronger than he thinks so. Madara really really really doesn’t want to stop being a human!

When Madara arrives at the concert hall backstage, Anzu quickly ushers him inside, pushing him from the back with her little strength, and hands him a lapel microphone to wear.

Before he heads outside the concert hall, Anzu calls his name one more time and looks him straight in the eyes. “About what you said...  we’re not an outsider.”

 _I mean, you’re like that too, right?_ Madara had told Anzu this afternoon. _You’re going as a fairytale character—A costume that makes you seem like an outsider… It’s as if you’re trying not to get deeply involved with anyone, or end up matching with anyone._

“People will always find a way into your life, no matter how you try to distance yourself. I don’t think being different means you can never belong somewhere. Just look at me, I’m a proof of it.” She smiles and perhaps, this is the reason why Little Red Riding Hood was able to come home. She never runs away, instead she faces everything on her path with determination. “Besides, it’s more interesting when everyone is different. Don’t you think so?”

Then, Madara is laughing before he knows it. “Ah, I’m really no match for you, Anzu-san!”

She’s right. He had always been human, despite the gifts that cursed him.

Madara has always been part of everyone’s story, as much as they are part of his own. And how they intertwine their stories with one another is something only they can do by living.

Finally, Madara steps into the concert hall.

It’s so bright. He squints and instinctively covers his eyes with the back of his hands. Has the stage always been this dazzling?

“Mike-chan-senpai, come over here, c’mon~ Why’re you so far away from us? Let’s all have fun singing and dancing together~!” Mitsuru instantly calls for him and asks him to come closer to where they all are. Madara has always felt that the stage is so big and empty whenever he’s performing alone. He doesn’t know how to measure the right amount of distance he should make. He takes a step forward hesitantly, feeling a surge of strange feeling in his chest.

The cyalumes shining from the audience are like a glittering sea of stars, like a burst of colorful fireworks burning against the dark. For the longest time, Madara has thought that idols are like stars onstage. But maybe that’s not the entire truth of it. It's the other way around. The audience is like the stars that they all want to reach—the stars _he_ wants to touch.

The pumpkins scattered around the stage give off an iridescent morning-glow. This must be the most radiant stage he had ever been part of. He closes his eyes and smiles. He can belong here too, right?

When he opens his eyes, there’s Chiaki and Kanata in front of him, hands outstretched, waiting for Madara.  

He’s not alone anymore.

“I can’t hold back my joy! I’m so happy, I could soar to the ends of the universe~” Madara laughs.

“We can’t have you do that now! Let’s all enjoy this together to the very end, Mikejima-san~” Chiaki beams.

“That’s right, it is just as Chiaki said~ Come, let’s all dance together~” Kanata smiles.

This must be what Chiaki means about how other people complete your life. He knows, more than anyone else, how the world is too big and too wide. And yet, he’s realizing now how there are bigger miracles out there, universe upon universe, found at the end of someone's touch.

All these things, all these people. Bright-eyed, heart-swelling. There are constricting feelings in his chest he doesn’t mind. For the first time, Madara feels like crying even as he smiles. For the first time, he wants to stay here forever.

Madara easily folds his entire life in a suitcase, but he knows that no matter how good he is, no matter how he tries hard, he will never be able to pack these emotions. It will always, _always_ spill out.

Bigger than his guilt, bigger than all his regrets, is this feeling.

Maybe this strange feeling is called happiness.

Maybe it's called love.

He still doesn't know how to belong in this world. He still doesn’t know how to treat himself kindly. But maybe it’s not something that anyone really knows how to answer. Maybe he's not the only with these questions. Maybe he doesn't need to find the answer alone.

It's a lot of _maybe’s_ , all dwelling in the future.

But Madara is not running away anymore. And if he has finally stopped running, then one day, surely, they can all catch up to him. And maybe then, someday, he’ll finally allow himself to be caught.

 

✧

 

_maybe i've done enough,_

_finally catching up_

_for the first time i see an image of my brokenness_

_utterly worthy of love_

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **euni:** this can be ur summary [excerpt from fic] BE EDGY!!  
>  **me:** CLICKBAIT SUMMARY  
>  **me:** Find Out What Madara Did Next  
>  **me:** You Wouldn't Believe What Happened After Madara Mikejima Came Back. read this fic to find out more  
>  **euni:** Wanna Know What He Fucked Up This Time
> 
> -
> 
> I started writing this fic way back last year when I first read runway and madara said “Although I couldn’t find a place for me anywhere, at least I want to become… a comfortable place people could go to” I thought. oh nooo ?? OH NO? he seems like hes such a sad boy deep deep down??? ;_;
> 
> and kanata mentioned in wisteria that no one can catch madara unless he rly wants to be caught
> 
> from there, I felt that I really wanted to explore the theme of running away and belonging for madara. then shinsengumi came and I kinda. yknow. Perished,  
> this might be a lot more hopeful than his canon narrative but!! I just want to give him happiness… ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡
> 
> THANK YOU TO ALL MY FRIENDS WHO LISTENED TO ME CRY ABOUT THIS SINCE DAY 1 AND HELD MY HAND THE ENTIRE TIME I LOVE YOU
> 
> i am also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Iittlewitch) crying, pls talk to me! c:
> 
> thank you so, so much for reading!


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